‘Oh yes,’ she replies, popping on her glasses and peering at me over their tortoise-shell patterned frames. ‘Tom. You like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I do,’ I answer, wondering if we’re about to wander into ‘inappropriate conversation’ territory. This happens occasionally, when she thinks I’m a female friend of the same age, or her younger sister. I’m an open-minded woman, but seriously, nobody wants to hear their mum’s sexual conquest stories, do they?
‘But do you like like him?’ she asks, clearly trying to keep a straight face.
‘Have you been watching the Disney Channel again?’ I ask, staring at her through narrowed eyes as she grins at me.
She’s developed a weird obsession with teen TV shows, like The Suite Life of Zack and Cody and Good Luck Charlie. She often sings the theme tunes, but always get them amusingly wrong – I will forever remember the time she changed the lyrics of a programme called Jessie, crooning along with her own words: ‘Hey Jessie! There’s a sausage sticking out of your face … Hey Jessie!’ It was priceless.
‘Might have been,’ she replies defensively. ‘Damn that Disney Channel. I know it’s wrong, but it feels so good … anyway, I get the feeling that the inventor of the flange bracket is definitely more than a friend. Is he hot?’
I sigh, and lean back, my arms crossed over my chest.
‘Mum, I’m not a fifteen-year-old cheerleader. And I barely know Tom – he’s just a nice guy who gets nervous around new people, and I thought this might help him. He’s a man who functions better with all the information.’
‘Nobody ever has all the information,’ she replies, quite accurately. ‘He’ll only have our version of the information. And I think you do like him.’
I chew my lips, and decide to ignore her. Partly because there’s a tiny bit of me that suspects she’s right, and that’s a scary prospect. Budbury is full of attractive men, but I’ve just never responded to any of them in that way.
With Tom … well, I’ve noticed his attractiveness a little more than usual. I tell myself that it’s simple biology – I’ve not had a boyfriend for well over three years. I suppose I was bound to crack at some point and give in to a little harmless window-shopping. But I need to keep it at that; between my jobs, my mum, and trying to save a bit of head-space for myself, there just isn’t time for anything else.
Everything hangs together in such a fragile way already, throwing an affair into the mix would bring it all crashing down around me. It’d be like the last plastic bucket you attach to Buckaroo’s back – just one item too many for a poor donkey (i.e. me) to bear.
‘You can think what you want,’ I reply, opening up a Word document. ‘I can’t stop your lurid fantasy life, Mum. But it’s getting late now, and I’m going to crack on. Do you want to help?’
She glances through the window, and sees that it is dark. She follows that up with a look at the page-a-day calendar.
‘Springtime,’ she says. ‘I love springtime. Every day, it’ll stay light for a little bit longer … I always think that’s magical. Okay. Let’s get to work then! Just give me a minute to set the right atmosphere …’
She’s big on atmospheres, my mum. We all grew up using aromatherapy oils, in a house scented by nature, often with weird sounds in the background. Other kids might have had Now That’s What I Call Music 1998, but we had whale song, Gregorian chanting, and Ravi Shankar’s greatest hits. I only remember the toned-down version of her – my older brothers and sister have more vivid recollections of living on the commune with her, when getting naked and painting yourself blue for a night round the campfire wasn’t unusual.
Mum gets up, and lights a couple of candles. I recognise the smell as chamomile and jasmine. She puts a CD in – thankfully her collection of ‘Music Inspired by the Ocean’ rather than Ravi Shankar – and sits back down with me.
It’s really nice, doing this together. It’s been another busy day, and I’ve not had anywhere near enough time to relax. It’s been sunny again, but I’ve mainly been in the van or indoors, at Briarwood and the café. Now I feel a bit like she’s managed that ‘bringing the outdoors in’ trick that they talk about on home renovation shows.
It takes us a while – almost two hours and a couple of mugs of tea – but it’s a fun two hours. I do the technical stuff, like the typing and saving and adding crazy fonts and colours and photos, and she adds her insights and comments.
I can tell as we do it that she doesn’t always remember who all these people are straightaway – but after a few prompts, she gets up to speed, and has something to add. She’s always been more instinct than fact anyway, which makes her a brilliant accomplice in this task.
By the time we’ve finished our masterwork, she’s happy, smiling, and tired – in a good way. She casts a final eye over it and nods approvingly.
‘It’s very good,’ she says, patting me on the shoulder. ‘You should print it out and pin it to the wall. Just so, you know, you remember everyone.’
Of course. Because it’s totally me who needs help on that front. You have to laugh sometimes.
‘Great idea. I’ll do that. Are you off to bed now?’
As she stands up and stretches – the usual signs – I’m not that surprised. It’s after nine, which is a late night for us.
‘Yes. Off to the land of cod for me, I think.’ A quick wink there, to show the mistake was deliberate. ‘Don’t stay up too late, love – busy day tomorrow.’
I don’t know if she has any real idea of what we’re doing tomorrow, or works on the basis that it’s always a busy day, but I nod and agree. I have a full shift at the café, and Katie and Saul are coming over to spend some time with Mum. She’ll enjoy that, I know – the joy of having a toddler in the house is that there’s always someone more confused than her. As her capabilities have been diminished over the last few years, along with at least some of her self-esteem, it does her good to be the ‘grown-up’ for a few hours.
I watch her pad silently down the hallway, still so lithe and graceful, and decide to throw caution to the wind – by brewing myself a wild and crazy peppermint tea. Five minutes of stillness, I tell myself; five minutes alone while I just let my mind relax and wander. Mainly it wanders right back to the Idiot’s Guide to Budbury we’ve just produced, which makes me smile.
I sit, sipping at my mug, and feel a sense of complete contentment wash over me. Quiet moments where I reflect on my friends and how lucky I am to have them. These are my people, and I love them – I just hope I’ve managed to capture them in all their glory for Tom.
I’ve built on the Game of Thrones riff from earlier, and laid it all out like one of those prologues from fantasy novels that seem to go on forever. I’ve added in some pictures and clip art – because I have the IT skills of a ten-year-old – but the content is what matters. It starts with Cherie, as all things in Budbury seem to, and covers all the key people he’ll meet if he stays.
I attach some pictures – from Frank’s horror-themed birthday party the summer before, and from our Budbury’s Got Talent Christmas bash – and a little note wishing him happy reading. I press send before treating myself to one more read through:
The House of Moon-Farmer
Cherie Moon is the ultimate matriarch of Budbury. She’s in her seventies, as tall as me, but much bigger and more solid. She’s a former hippy rock-chick, and you can still see it: she has very long hair, which she often wears in a plait. She likes the occasional herbal cigarette, often walks around barefoot, and looks after everyone she meets. She owns the Comfort Food Café, the Rockery holiday cottages, and a few other